


Dearer Than Darling, Than Love

by GodmotherToClarion



Series: Sped By Flame [5]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Splash Free, Children, Domestic Fluff, Intimacy, M/M, Marriage, Parenthood, smitten Haru, smitten Makoto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16837441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodmotherToClarion/pseuds/GodmotherToClarion
Summary: “I never read much of love when I was a boy,” Haru murmured. “Tell me, my darling.”“Love, the life-giving garden of the world,” laughed Makoto, kissing him again. “Every bough and willow’s leaf sings for you, sweetheart. The cypress cries out for your valor, and the roses chant of your loveliness.”





	Dearer Than Darling, Than Love

**Author's Note:**

> Another oneshot! This can be read on its own, so don't worry if you're unfamiliar with the series! :3

_ “I never read much of love when I was a boy,” Haru murmured. “Tell me, my darling.” _

_ “Love, the life-giving garden of the world,” laughed Makoto, kissing him again. “Every bough and willow’s leaf sings for you, sweetheart. The cypress cries out for your valor, and the roses chant of your loveliness.” _

* * *

As crown prince of Qasr Makoto spent the better part of his days taken up in conference, alone and with his parents and Haru in attendance. That day the Astaran viceroy had sent a nobleman to present an altered contract of trade, and since the matter was a small one Makoto bid his husband farewell before luncheon and went to meet with the envoy himself. 

When he returned he found his quarters empty; Haru had departed the royal wing and taken small Milad with him, leaving only a note in carefully-scripted Eastern to say he had eaten the noon meal with Rin and Sakura. The envelope was signed as Haru’s missives always were of late, with his married name written in delicate sigils at the foot of the page and a tender post-script in the common speech. 

Beneath his husband’s fair hand a line of straggling characters spelt out a second name, and at the sight of it Makoto caught up the parchment and pressed it to his lips; though Milad was only four months past his second birthday Haru had begun teaching him his letters, and now the little lad clamored for a loaded quill whenever his parents brought him into their study. Though the glyphs were two inches broader than they ought to have been Makoto could read them clearly, and tucking the message into his girdle he went out again to the landing where a sentry stood on watch. 

“Sanim!” he called, laughing as the young man jumped and sprang to attention. “At ease, lad. You need not trouble with a salute each time I hail you, you know.”

“Aye, Highness!” cried Sanim, hefting the spear he carried. “What is it?”

“I only wish to know where Haru and Milad have gone,  _ radhiy _ ,” said Makoto. “Did you see them go?”

“His lordship and the little prince went to the jousting field with Rei- _ sahib _ , Highness,” answered the lad. “They departed an hour after luncheon, I think.”

“The jousting field?” repeated the prince, catching his breath in fear at the thought of his husband riding alone. “Oh, Goddess―I thank you, Sanim―”

With that Makoto turned tail and leapt down two flights of stairs until he came to the doors of the fencing ring, which he passed in favor of the high-arched gates that led to the jousting field. He crossed the threshold as softly as he could, lest Haru’s white mare Nafisa should hear him and startle; after their wedding he had begged his husband to take another beast, but to his dismay the Westerner had only kissed Nafisa’s forelock and said she was no danger to him. Though he spoke truly the elder prince could not forget the day Nafisa threw Haru from the saddle during the last fall tournament, and so he peered between the stands until he saw two figures standing on the track with a third near the benches close by. 

To his relief there were no horses in the ring, neither Haru’s nor any of the other beasts reserved for the army: only Haru himself, dancing in dust-stained garments to the music of Rei’s reeded Sahrastani flute. Makoto blinked and bent over the balustrade, wondering why his beloved had chosen to dance on the field rather than in the entertainers’ hall―but somehow the elder prince did not wish to rouse his husband from his art, and so he sat behind the rail and watched as Haru’s long toed-feet followed one another through the Western  _ raqas-nar.  _ When he came to a halt Rei only clucked his tongue and picked up the hourglass perched on his knee, shaking his head as the last grains of sand flowed into the second bulb. 

“Not long enough,  _ shin’ainaru-ko _ . You must not go so swiftly at the first, or―”

“Or I shall hurt my knees, I know,” sighed Haru, shaking out his tunic. “I forgot to heed the  _ arghul’s  _ high notes in the second quarter. Shall I begin again?”

“What doing, Mama?” inquired Milad, tugging at his father’s long trousers. “I want to know.”

At this the two brothers threw back their heads and laughed, for once the child had learned to speak in common he questioned his parents and aunts and uncles at all they did, as if determined to make up for the quiet days of his infancy. Whatever his little mind wished to know he asked his guardians at once, and so often that Rin went to hide in the garden upon Milad’s demand to be told what a temper was and why the advisor grew red in the face when he had one. This curiosity had caused some grief to his father, for upon hearing a muttered oath from the sultan's study some weeks past the child made a beeline for Makoto and sprang into his lap, shocking the poor man into silence the moment he opened his mouth. 

"What is a loathsome devil, Papa? I want to know."

From that day forth they minded their tongues when Milad was in earshot, but in the end it did no good; there was very little that Rin did not say when Nagisa put flour down his collar at breakfast one morning, and no end of questions from mischievous babies who were always "wanting to know." But there was nothing about Haru’s dancing unfit for childish ears, and so he answered full willing as Milad jumped about his feet. 

“In the West we dance before sparring to keep our bodies limber, my baby,” smiled Haru, kissing the tuft of black hair that grew over Milad’s forehead. “If I did not I would grow sore after training, and stiff in the joints.”

“Stiff in the joints,” snorted Rei. “Stiff in the back, more likely. Your stance has grown worse than Ikuya’s.”

“Not so bad as that, surely!” teased the prince, resuming the opening position of the dance as Milad went back to his chair. He stood on the toes of one foot whilst raising the other to settle against his knee, lifting his slender arms to Heaven by leave of Rei’s  _ arghul.  _ As the melody quickened its pace he rushed across the track like a flame over new-lit coals, turning so swiftly that Makoto had scarcely a moment to marvel before losing his breath again. 

Though they had now been married nearly five months Makoto was still a stranger to the steady fire that burned in Haru’s eye, for it lived and perished to the pulse of Iwatobi in the west: rising and falling like the roar of desert sandstorms, shrieking in youthful glee with the coming of the summer monsoon. In his heart Makoto knew his beloved was neither more nor less than the mightiest creature the sands had ever borne, made for the heat of the sunlit plains just as eagles were made to govern the Southern skies. The kingdom’s harshest master could not have confined a soul such as his, and yet eleven years of grief and duty had shackled him as surely as if he had fastened the chains himself. 

But in his last flowering―from child to father, from youth to manhood, and then from sweetheart to husband―he had grown uncommonly gentle, breathing at ease in the East with his boundless Western valor lying hidden in the shadows lest it should be needed again. The tenderness of his voice and the warmth of his embrace belied the truth that the wild prince of Sahrastan had walked the earth at all, and it was only when he stood in the fencing ring or alone with his brother Rei that Makoto saw the untrammeled boy his darling had been of old. 

And how beautiful he was! crowned with dark hair too short to be properly bound, and far too long to cling to his head―unhurried with his movements though he kept the pace of a snapping bonfire, darting over the shifting sands like a bird of prey set loose to hunt at dawn. Though his sweet songs over Milad’s crib and his wisdom in the court were no lesser in relief Makoto found himself winded, and so he sank down to sit on the floor as Haru finished his exercise and went to stand beside Rei. 

“Will you do a  _ tash’qalib _ now, then?” asked the healer. “You were talking of it yesterday at supper, I remember.”

“ _ Tash’qalib,  _ Rei-chan?” wondered Milad in Eastern, putting his nose into his uncle’s ear. “I―”

“Want to know?” laughed Rei, tickling the child until he shrieked with laughter. “Your  _ mama  _ will show you, if he is so inclined.”

“Aye, he is,” Haru chuckled. He went back to the end of the track and stood without moving for a minute before setting off at a run, bolting past Rei and Milad and Makoto’s seat in the stands before flinging himself headlong into the dust, landing on the palms of his hands before springing upright again. He made nearly nine full turns before he stumbled, wheeling down the barrier in a heartbeat as Makoto smothered a gasp with the sleeve of his robe. 

“I do, too!” cried Milad, his rose-leaf mouth agape in awe as he slid off Rei’s lap and toddled in Haru’s wake. He put his arms up above his head as Haru had done, dropping onto the ground and rolling three or four lengths before squeaking in startled triumph. “See, Mama!”

At the sight of him Makoto nearly burst into tears, for save Haru there was nothing he loved in all the world so fiercely as he loved his child. When Milad made to brush the sand from his little frock his father fought the urge to run down and embrace him, but in the end he remained where he stood; the picture was far too dear to intrude upon, and a moment later it grew dearer still as Haru caught the baby in his arms and cradled him to his breast. When Milad protested his father put him down and cleaned the grit from his own shirt as best he could, setting the child on his hip again as Rei put away his flute before marching up through the stands to the place where Makoto sat in the sixteenth row. 

“You did not think you had gone unseen, surely?” 

Makoto laughed and met him with a kiss. 

“I had hoped so, my love. I feared you would come to harm if I startled you, for you were dancing so swiftly that a fall might have hurt you.”

“Nay, not I,” hummed Haru, kissing him once again. “Your eyes are upon me so often that I should know your gaze blindfolded.”

When Makoto withdrew he found that Rei had gone and taken Milad with him, leaving the two princes alone before the carven gate. Haru lifted his brows and laughed, taking Makoto’s hand before tugging him into the palace. 

“Let me rid myself of this dust,  _ amarya _ ,” he vowed, “And then I shall return to you.”

“I do not mind the dust, you know,” Makoto teased. “I am a soldier as well as you, and far too put-upon to wash my limbs so devotedly as you do in Sahrastan.”

“But bathe I must, for I wish to do another portrait before we lose the light,” sighed Haru. “Will you sit for me again, sweetheart? With Milad, if he can keep still for longer than a minute.”

“He has been jumping about all afternoon,  _ aynee _ ,” came the reply. “If you sang but a single lullaby he would fall asleep at once. Would you paint him so?”

“I paint him sleeping better than I do awake,” smiled the Westerner. “Now come, my love, before Nagisa runs away to the dancing-chambers with him.”

* * *

_ He had never learned what it was, the power that turned Haru’s eyes green by candlelight; only that evening after evening he saw them shining like the forests of the North where once they mirrored the skies, half-hidden by a veil of curling lashes sweet with almond oil. They did not speak of it even to each other, perhaps from the fear that blue spheres below sand-brown hair were nothing more than illusion―but though he could not tell how Makoto was certain his own eyes grew darker in their colour when Haru kissed his brow, forsaking the hues of willows’ leaves for the cobalt of open waters.  _

_ “Jahan’nad-li aisha, Haru-chan,” he breathed, holding his beloved closer still. “Oh, dearheart―” _

_ “And I!” whispered Haru, meeting his kiss with white lips washed by the salt of their mingled weeping. _

_ * _ __ _ * _ __ _ * _

Later that night they lay nearing sleep in their bedchamber with Milad sprawled between them, roused now and then by the baby’s fidgeting as he kicked at the patterned blanket. Though Haru’s eyes were half-open Makoto’s were nearly shut, and if he had not thought once more of his husband’s dancing he would have not stirred again. 

“Are you awake,  _ aynee _ ?”

“Aye, I am,” yawned the Iwatobian. “What is the matter, my love?”

“No matter, darling,” Makoto soothed. “Only that when I saw you dancing on the jousting field I recalled you as you were in Sahrastan―and I wondered why you never laugh so now, and if you were longing for home more than you would tell me.”

“Did I not tell you,  _ shin’ainaru-ko? _ ” Haru smiled. “Home is the spot on the earth where you set your feet,  _ amarya,  _ you and little Milad. I said as much on our wedding tour.”

“And the rest?”

For a while Haru was silent, toying with the tassels on the silk drapes until Makoto set a hand on his shoulder. At last Milad put a stray lock of black hair in his mouth and roused its keeper from his thoughts, prodding the prince to turn to the side and kiss Makoto’s cheek. 

“ _ Aethe’kanz, _ ” he said. “That is what they called me in Iwatobi.”

“What does it mean?”

“Heart’s dearest treasure,” came the answer. “After the rebellion it was  _ tae’ala,  _ Heaven-blessed. There were many others, but when I was a boy they called me  _ nasir janni _ , a djinn born into the body of an eagle.”

Makoto said nothing, pulling the sunbrowned hand on his breast to his lips as Haru gathered himself and went on. 

“I was a lawless child, you know. Forever flouting Sasabe’s words and running away from my lessons, forever training with weapons unfit for one so small and hounding the falconers until they began to teach me. I took what I wished and did as I pleased―not even the hawks and kites knew such freedom as I did, and to me the whole of Iwatobi was a field of gems laid at my feet for my joy. And I was content to be so, until the attack on Sahrastan. But after that I longed―I longed to strike off my chains and return to my grandmother’s house, or to stand at ease with the knowledge that the  _ nasir janni  _ was gone beyond recall. No prince was ever so attentive to duty as I was after that, but perhaps all the rest were better fit to walk in their own skins.

“And then you came, sweetheart.”

“I?” whispered Makoto, catching his breath at the tender light in Haru’s deep-blue eyes. 

“You bless me so often, darling, for making you both husband and father, but you gave me my heart again,” murmured the youth. “As if I were a trammeled beast, penned and tied in the darkness, and you set my spirit loose to breathe at will in the sun. All the glory of the West was dust and ashes in my eyes, and without you it would have been no better than a prison to me.”

“No, no!” cried the elder prince, tucking small Milad onto his side of the bed before taking his beloved in his arms. “No, my love! It is you who brings life in its full to me―if we had not met, I―”

“All that is good art Thou,” breathed Haru, silencing him with a kiss. “All that is good art Thou, and thine excellence dwelling in Everything.”

At the words of the Goddess’s prayer Makoto went still, clutching his husband’s fingers as the altar-flame rose higher. 

“What do you mean,  _ rouhiya _ ?”

“Do you think I remember the Goddess in my devotion,  _ aynee?  _ It is my husband I worship on bended knee when I sit before the shrine, for the Mother in all her splendor could not surpass you, Makoto!” 

The whispered reply brought a lump to the Qasrian’s throat, and he choked on a flood of tears before pressing his cheek to Haru’s. “ _ Jaanya,  _ I―”

They said nothing more after that, for when Haru’s hands found purchase on his shoulders Makoto rose from the bed and carried him into the spare-room, kissing the part of his hair before shutting the curtains in his wake. 

There they remained until the first rays of dawn broke over the spired citadel, lost to all the world save one another as they breathed their praises in the dark. When at last Makoto fell into slumber Haru remained awake for nearly half an hour longer, lying with his head on his husband’s arm as the palace began to stir. 

“There is one verse I remember,” he smiled. “Sleep,  _ amarya.  _ I shall tell you when you wake.”

* * *

_ I stand upon your tongue when you taste food, _

_ And in the arc of your mallet when you work, _

_ when you visit your kin, when you go up to the roof by yourself at night. _

_ There's nothing worse than to walk out along the street _

_ without you, for I know not where I go without your step beside me. _

_ Thou art the way, and the maker of joy, _

_ Dearer than darling, than love. _

  
  



End file.
